Invisible Touch
by authoressnebula
Summary: Post Dead Man's Blood: A fight leads to a careless wish, and Sam finds himself invisible. He figures that with everything that's happened, it's what John and Dean truly want. Right?
1. Chapter 1

Why, just why, couldn't he have a conversation with his father that didn't end with his dad yelling after him and himself leaving the premises? Granted, he was coming back this time, but...after a bit of time had passed. Because Sam was still pissed, and he knew John would be, too.

And Dean...Dean had been caught in the middle of it again, but this time, he'd taken a side. John's side. And _that_ had been the final straw that had made Sam leave before he could hear anymore of what Dean had to say for their dad's side of things.

He hated this. He hated that he couldn't ask a simple question without his head being ripped off. He knew that in battle and war it was a bad idea to question every move, but they weren't in a battle right now; their dad had just agreed to let them stay together as a family, and not even a day later, Sam was ready for them to split up again, just to stay away from his dad.

All he'd asked was what his dad had found out about the demon. _The_ demon, the one who had started them all down this path they couldn't step off of. His dad had been missing for almost a year, and Sam had been curious. Hell, if they were going to fight as a unit now, as a _family_, then maybe Sam and Dean ought to have an idea of what they were going up against?

Nope; not according to the all mighty John Winchester. They were back to the same old "I'll tell you as you need to know" basis, and it was pissing Sam off. Questioning it had only pissed John off, and they'd gone off and running from there. The worst part, though, had been Dean.

A couple of nights before, Dean had agreed with Sam, told John that they were just as capable of hunting things as their dad was, and it was about time he stopped treating them like little kids who didn't know anything.

Today, though, instead of playing mediator as the argument had gotten more heated between Sam and John, Dean had glanced over at Sam and said, "Just...stop, okay? Enough, Sam; let it go. You know he's right."

That was when the floor had fallen out underneath Sam's feet. No questioning his Dad, no maybes that Sam was right, nothing. Just total certainty.

Dean had opened his mouth, but Sam had backed away for the door to get him out, get him away from the traitorous words that would've followed behind the damning betrayal.

Sam slowly slid to the curb and bit his lip against the tears that were welling in his eyes. "_Dammit_," he cursed, sniffling and rubbing at his eyes angrily. It was like they didn't even care. He knew they did, knew they'd give their life for him, but thinking it with the words and seeing proof, hearing proof of it from their own lips, was another thing all together.

"Are you okay?"

Sam glanced up and blinked against the bright light. After his eyes refocused, he found a shadow in front of the light that was the sun, and the shadow turned out to be a girl. A young girl with hair that was almost white it was so blonde, and a young girl who was crouched down now in front of him with a worried frown on her forehead. "I saw you come over here not too long ago," she explained. "Not a lot of people sit on the curb near a garden when there's benches _inside_ the garden to sit on, so..."

Sam forced a smile and glanced behind him. Truth be told, he hadn't really known where he was; he'd just run. Hard and fast, and he told himself that it was because he'd taken off that quickly that he hadn't heard his name being called by his brother or his dad. Because the truth, that neither of them had called him back with worry or fear in their tones, was way worse to contemplate.

"I'm Amelia," she said, stretching her hand out.

With a quick smile Sam extended and took her hand in his. It felt soft, like almost pillow soft, and he wondered what type of hand lotion she used. "I'm Sam," he said, and he cleared his throat when his voice came out hoarse.

"Did something bad happen?" she asked, taking a seat beside him on the curb.

Sam snorted, his lips turning up in a bitter grin. "Yeah. It always seems to in my family."

"Your family?"

"My brother and my dad," he said, trying to steel away the images of John and Dean standing together, giving him disapproving looks. Both against him.

And why shouldn't they be? Dean was the perfect son, the one who followed orders, the one who had grown up the way John had wanted him to grow up, the one who was steadfast and loyal to anyone he cared about now thanks to that.

Sam just wasn't on that list anymore. He'd thought he was, but...

His head was messed up. Everything about him was messed up.

"You had a fight, I'm guessing."

Sam glanced over at her sympathetic gaze, and blinked when he saw flashes of lilac in her eyes. A car passed them on the road they were seated on, and Sam assumed it had been that reflected in her eyes. "Yeah," he said, sighing. "I just...got tired of it. All of it."

"Was it with both of them, or...?"

Something about her made him open up. "My dad, first. That wasn't really a surprise. If he makes up his mind, then there's no going back. So when his geeky son asks questions..." Sam threw his hands up in the air. "Boom."

"And your brother?" she pressed gently.

"My brother's played chairman of peace between us for years, but today, he...he sided with my dad." It hurt to even _say_ it. It just felt so wrong. "Dean's been the only one who's really been honest with me about things, when he isn't trying to pretend everything's just fine when we both know it isn't. So when he comes out and says something, I know it's his 100 honest feeling, and when he finally picked a side..." Sam closed his eyes and hung his head. He'd hoped that it would be him. He'd hoped that if Dean had stood on anyone's side, it would've been on Sam's.

"It hurts," Amelia said simply and softly. "Do you wish you could change it?"

Sam laughed and stopped when he felt tears press at his eyes. If he laughed anymore, he was going to start crying. Again. "Yes. I wish...I wish I knew that they actually cared. No one in my family seems to enjoy talking except me. Talking about the stuff that really matters. If they could just say it, just _once_, that they cared, that they loved me..." He shook his head. "I might as well wish for pigs to fly for all the good it would do me."

Amelia frowned slightly and leaned forward, and Sam found himself caught in her gaze. "You think they don't care about you? Like...like you don't exist, right?"

Sam frowned but nodded slowly. When Dean had taken his dad's side, they'd been a strong force together, solid and sure and not needing the questioning youngest. John and Dean could stand together against anything. "Yeah, that's exactly what it felt like. It'd probably be easier for them if I wasn't around; they probably worked better when I went to school and wasn't hanging around nagging at them. I just wish...I just wish I could disappear." The gaze with which Amelia was piercing him seemed to get stronger, and Sam found that he couldn't look away.

Then Amelia leaned back, smiling suddenly, before nodding once. "Good wishes," she said, rising. "I hope everything works out for you, Sam." She turned and walked away towards the garden, and when Sam blinked, suddenly distracted by the bright summer sun, she was gone.

Sam blinked again, glancing around the garden behind him in hopes that he would see her. "Amelia?" he asked, but received nothing for an answer.

He sighed and turned back to the curb. It had been nice to let off some of what he was feeling, but loneliness was settling back into his soul, along with the truth that his words had been. John and Dean didn't really need him or seem to want him around. He got in the way, asked questions that bothered the both of them, and didn't seem to fit in. He never really had.

He'd wait a little while longer before going back, and maybe by then his brother and dad would've reverted to the age old thing they did when anything got emotional: bury it and forget it, and never _ever_ talk about it.


	2. Chapter 2

He stopped in front of the door, feeling even crappier now than he had an hour ago. Almost an hour after his talk with Amelia, he'd started the good mile back to the hotel, and his luck hadn't been very good all the way there. People had bumped into him, shoved him, ignored him completely, and he'd almost been run over twice by inconsiderate drivers. It was like they hadn't even seen him at all.

He raised his hand to knock, but the door opened before he had a chance to. Dean was behind it, his face pinched tight in anger. Sam sighed and hung his head. Great. Just great. "Just leave me alone, all right?" he said, sliding past his brother into the room. John sat at the table, foot tapping restlessly. He didn't even look at Sam when he came in. That was a good sign.

Not.

"Dean," his dad called, but there was an undercurrent of concern in it. Concern for Dean, yelling for Sam. Sam ignored him as best as he could and took a seat on the motel bed. He sank further then he thought he would, and it made him frown.

"He didn't answer his damn cell phone," Dean said tersely, still gazing out into the parking lot as if he wanted to bolt. Sam's jaw dropped slightly as his heart did flip-flops. They were talking about him in the third person, like he wasn't even here. Tears stung at his eyes, and he clenched his fists.

"It never rang, and even if it had, I wouldn't have answered," Sam said, his glare shifting from one to another. "And why should I have, when you can't seem to be bothered to talk to me like a human being?"

"Dean," John called again, turning to his oldest at the door. He looked just as angry as Dean was. "He'll be fine, all right?"

"It's been over an hour," Dean said, but he slammed the hotel door shut and stepped back inside. He stopped right in front of Sam, completely ignoring him, and glared at John. "Sam _never_ leaves for more than an hour at a time. It's like a mental clock in his head. And if he _is_ gone for more than an hour, he'll at least have the decency to call or pick up. Even if he's pissed as hell at me, he'll still answer with a short 'I'm fine' or something. And _nothing_. I've called three times, Dad. He's not answering. Something's wrong."

Something was _very_ wrong, and Sam slowly stood from the edge of the bed, which actually turned out to be the floor. That didn't help his anxiousness at all. "Dean, I'm right here," he said. When Dean didn't answer him, Sam swallowed and waved his hand in front of his brother's face. Nothing.

His heart shot up into his throat before sinking hard and fast. He slid his cell phone out of his pocket, and found that there had been three calls. When he tried to access the menu to see who, the buttons refused to get him there. It was as if no one was there to press them.

Sam froze. The drivers hadn't even seen him. No one on the sidewalk had noticed him. And now, he was standing in a room with his brother and his father and neither of them seemed to know that he was there. It was like he didn't exist.

_You think they don't care about you? Like...like you don't exist, right?_

Oh no. Oh _please_ no.

Sam hurried over to his dad, waving his arms. "Dad! Tell me you can see me! _Dad_!"

John looked through him to Dean, and Sam turned to his brother with pleading eyes. "Dean, _please_ tell me you can hear me. Say something. Anything," he begged.

Dean just turned away, grabbing his jacket from the chair it was thrown over. "I'm going to go look for him," Dean said, and his tone suggested a dark fury behind it. Worse yet, Sam knew it was aimed at him. "The huge freak couldn't have gotten far."

"I'll stay here, in case he shows up," John said. They exchanged looks again, like they were talking to each other without words, before Dean nodded and stepped outside, slamming the door shut behind him.

Sam sat back on the floor and buried his face in his hands.

Half an hour later, Dean returned, tight-lipped and white knuckled as he reported that he hadn't found Sam. Twenty minutes after he'd come back, both John and Dean left, returning an hour later with the same results. No Sam.

Sam had moved to the corner by that point, legs curled up against his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his knees. He stared straight ahead at nothing, not even bothering to glance up in hope anymore when John or Dean walked in. It wasn't like they could see him anyways. He was nothing.

The door slammed extra hard, and Sam knew without looking that it was Dean. "Dammit the HELL!" Dean shouted, punctuating the slamming he'd done. "Freakin' _idiot_. I can't believe in the space of an _hour_ he managed to get himself into trouble. Only Sam."

Sam forced his lower jaw to straighten as it began to tremble. He didn't need to hear this or want to hear this. More proof of the burden he was. Dean would go off now to try and get his stupid brother back, and after having been reminded of the trouble that Sam was, John would leave not just him, but Dean as well, and it would be Sam's fault that his brother wasn't with their father again.

Or maybe Dean would just go with his dad this time, and never look back as they left Sam behind.

He was probably being a drama queen again, thinking of all the extreme ways this could go wrong, but in their lives, the extreme ways were often the only ways that things happened.

"Dean, we'll get him back. You know that, right?"

When his brother didn't respond, Sam slowly lifted his head, blinking as his eyes adjusted to looking at other things again. He found his brother seated in one of the chairs, arms braced on his knees, head hung too low for Sam to see his face.

John sighed and crouched down in front of his oldest, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "We'll find him," he said softly, and Sam was amazed that his dad could even speak with a tone like that.

Dean raised his head at last, and Sam was even more amazed at the misery on his brother's face. "I shouldn't have said it," he said, his voice rough. "I just hate it when you two fight, and I thought my stepping onto a side would startle you both enough to just shut _up_, you know?"

"I know," John said, and there was a pain in his face that Sam couldn't believe.

"Then why did you choose Dad's side?" Sam called out, knowing that Dean couldn't hear him, but he had to ask. He always had to ask.

"He didn't let me finish," Dean said, rubbing at his face with eyes that looked suspiciously damp. "He shouldn't have asked and kept pushing, like you said. Any information about that thing is just going to leave us more out in the open and vulnerable against it. Because it drags us more into it and means we can't step out; that's why you don't want us to know, right?"

John looked pained but he nodded, and Sam looked back at the wall. The paint was peeling, revealing white plaster underneath the dark orange color. It was ugly and falling apart, but it was the better alternative then looking at his brother while Sam quietly fell apart.

"But he was right, too."

Sam glanced back over sharply, confusion written all over his features. _What the hell?_ "Sam's brain goes ten times faster than ours; he's happiest when he can sit and mull things over," Dean said as he glared, _glared_, at John. "You know that. You could've given him one little thing, let him in just a little, and things would've been okay. He just wants to know that you haven't shut him out."

"I know," John said softly, and Sam couldn't get any more shocked today.

A thought occurred to him, and he glanced down at his hands, to see if he looked anymore visible. "Hey! Can you hear me?" he called out.

John patted Dean's shoulder, sighing heavily. "We'll find him, Dean."

Dean merely nodded, looking even more miserable than before. "Guess not," Sam muttered, glaring at the faded carpet he was sitting on. Dean was right; he was happier when he was thinking about something, and right now, he was thinking about the mess he'd gotten himself into. It had been Amelia, that much was for certain. What _exactly_ had he said?

He'd wished to disappear. Okay, wish granted in the suckiest of ways. Not that the granting could've been good, but... At any rate, it sucked.

He'd also wished to hear that his family cared about him. And he had; those tiny, few words from his father and brother had helped out a lot.

So why wasn't he visible? He'd gotten his wishes; time to go back to normal.

Normal, however, wasn't happening here. He was still firmly stuck as invisible, and nothing he could do apparently was going to change that. He was just going to have to get used to it for the time being until he fixed things.

And he would fix things. They'd just take a little bit of time, that's all.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day, Sam was going insane. He'd thought he'd been ignored before?

Oh no. He'd had no idea what being ignored felt like. _This_, truly being ignored, was so much worse than he'd imagined. Dean couldn't hear him, John couldn't see him, and all attempts to touch anything were met with his hand going through the object. He didn't exist, after all. He had no one to talk to, and he realized that despite all the times where he'd spoken and John or Dean hadn't responded, he'd at least known that they'd heard him. Here, they heard nothing.

Sam wasn't the only one losing his mind. As the day turned into night and then back into day again, Dean never stopped moving. His new default setting was on misery and anger; a mode Sam had never really associated his brother with. His brother was cool, calm, collected, lover of all things woman (Cancer through Capricorn, Dean didn't really care) and a total smart-ass. If he got caught in a bad situation, he'd simply grin and find a way to turn it back around. That was Dean.

This wasn't Dean. Dean wasn't the type who would stand in the middle of the room, running his agitated hands through his hair. Dean never had bloodshot eyes and worry lines on his face. Dean didn't grab his phone and dial with shaking hands every half an hour to see if Sam would answer. Eventually, the half an hour calling became every ten minutes, until John simply came over and took the cell phone from his son.

John, who Dean had gotten his cool and calm routine from, was looking extremely harried himself. His hair was disheveled, his face looked too old, and he was hunched over himself like an elderly man. This wasn't the man that Sam had faced off against time and time again, the man he'd looked up to in so many ways as he'd been raised, the man he'd called his drill sergeant and his father.

Needless to say, their freaking out was causing Sam to freak out.

In between calling Sam's cell phone, which dutifully received the calls but never rang or let Sam answer, the two called their contacts, researched the area around them for anything strange that could've befallen Sam, and completely threw themselves into finding Sam. What they hadn't done was really sleep or eat since Sam's disappearance.

A part of Sam hated it, that the one thing he'd thought would help them was actually hurting them even more. He'd thought if he disappeared, then things would be better for them. That they'd be happier.

Apparently, they weren't. And the other part of Sam was secretly thrilled that they weren't happier without him. He hated that they were hurting like this, but his own battered heart was slowly starting to feel like a normal heart again. Like a puzzle that hadn't been properly put back together, had been jumbled up and forgotten, and was now having each piece carefully placed back to where it really belonged.

Of course, his rational mind came right back in that they were worried because they thought he was in trouble. The rate they were going, they were going to collapse in another day or so. They'd made it a couple of _years_ without Sam when he'd gone off to college; obviously they could handle themselves on their own. Right now, though, they were just worried about Sam. Maybe when they knew he wasn't in danger, they were better off.

Sam _really_ hated thinking sometimes.

"Still nothing?" Dean asked. His voice sounded rough on account of not having slept. He rubbed his hand over his face again, slowly ending over his hair and looking too young for this type of worry and too old because of it all at once.

"No," Sam replied, needing to say something, to pretend that he was in the conversation. He hated that he wasn't, even less so than usual.

"No," John replied, closing Sam's laptop. "Nothing about the area shows up anything supernatural. No disappearances, no deaths, nothing out of the ordinary. There've been a few deaths obviously through the years, but nothing that denotes a pattern. I hate to say it, but Sam's...Sam's just disappeared," John said, and his voice was quiet. "We need to look for him like everyone else looks for missing people."

"The police?" Dean said incredulously, and there was finally a glint of life in his eyes. An angry glint, but Sam found he preferred that to the dullness that had set into his brother's eyes. "We don't need the police. We'll find him ourselves."

"Dean, we may be running out of time with this," John said, standing slowly and regarding his oldest with cool eyes. "If we're going to get Sam back, we need to act fast."

"You don't know that!" Dean shouted, and Sam jumped at the intensity of his anger. Dean looked _furious_, and Sam had never heard him speak out against their father like this. Never. "He could be just fine!"

"He could be _dead_, Dean!" John yelled, and he looked stricken even as he said it. Dean snarled, _snarled_, then advanced on John. John didn't back down, but simply raised his chin. They were actually going to fight over this? Over Sam?

"Uh, guys, let's take a step back here," Sam said, stepping between them. He knew it wasn't going to do any good, but dammit, he had to try. Dean kept coming, and John didn't move. Great.

"Guys! Guys, stop this!" Sam shouted.

"You sonuva_bitch_," Dean said, his voice low and dangerous. "Sammy's not dead. We'll get him back."

"Then we need the cops in on this," John said, his voice equally as low. "You know I'm right, Dean."

"Like you were right earlier?"

"We're not discussing this right now. We need to get Sam back."

Sam felt like ripping out his hair. Is this what Dean felt like, always trying to pull Sam and John apart before they killed each other? "Just...just _stop_ already!" he shouted, swinging his hands to stop them from advancing on each other. His arms went through them, but didn't go through the next object: the beer bottle on the table. It went flying back against the wall, and suddenly everyone's eyes were on it.

Sam blinked. "I...I moved it?" He looked at his wrist, then reached out to Dean. Nope; no touching happened.

So why had he been able to move the beer bottle?

He turned himself back around completely to Dean and John, and found them staring at the beer bottle with wide eyes, the fight forgotten. "It'd be our luck," Dean said hollowly. "Pick a hotel room that's haunted."

Sam rolled his eyes. "It's just me, Dean," he said, sighing heavily. He wondered if any other spirits ever felt so annoyed.

He wasn't a spirit, though. Not really. But still, he wondered it all the same. Maybe after all those years of having people say stupid things like that, their annoyance turned into anger and they finally started killing people.

He really needed to be visible again before his train of thought got even further derailed.

John shook his head slowly, his gaze wandering around the room. "The lights haven't flickered. There's no scent of ozone, and there's been no traces of sulphur. Besides, we've got the salt ring around all the windows and doors like we usually do."

"That beer bottle didn't move itself," Dean retorted, but he didn't disagree with John. 

"Might not be a malevolent spirit," John said after a moment, peering around until his gaze settled on the beer bottle again. "Get the rock salt anyways."

Dean reached for the shotgun, and Sam suddenly felt alarmed. He wasn't sure if it would hit him, but he didn't really want to find out. His quick moving gaze spotted a piece of paper and pen on the table, and he reached for it. His hand went through it, and he cursed, pulling his hand away and closing his eyes. He had to concentrate, and if he thought hard enough about grabbing the pen, taking it in his fingers...

When he opened his eyes, the pen was in his fingers. He lifted it from the desk, slowly and carefully as if afraid it would fall through his fingers. He turned to his brother and his father, not sure how to get their attention, but he didn't have to worry. Their eyes were locked on the pen, and Dean had the rock salt aimed _exactly_ where Sam was standing.

Quickly Sam began to write on the paper, and he was surprised when it barely scratched over it. He pursed his lips and put everything he had into moving the pen across the page, writing his short message. When he'd finished, he dropped it onto the table, suddenly feeling drained. This being invisible thing just sucked.

John hesitantly approached after a moment, glancing down at the pad of paper. His eyes widened almost comically, before he turned to view the room. "Dad, what is it?" Dean asked, sights still aimed above the pad of paper.

"_Sam_?" John breathed, and Sam sighed with relief even while Dean practically dropped the gun.

"What? No. No, no, no," Dean said, hurrying over to the pad of paper. The words were light but visible on the blank white sheet: _It's me._ The handwriting was very obviously Sam's.

Sam took a few more breaths, took one very deep breath, and reached for the pen again. He moved quicker this time, and wrote three simple letters on the page. _Yes_.

"NO!" Dean howled, causing Sam to jerk backwards in surprise. "You stupid sonuvabitch, how the hell...you're..." Dean stumbled backwards, his eyes wide as they stayed locked on the piece of paper.

"Dean," Sam and John said at the same time, Sam's tone confused, John's firm but gentle.

"_One hour_!" Dean exploded. "He was gone _one hour_ and he managed to get himself kil..." He swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes shut.

"What? Dean, I'm not dead," Sam said, turning back to the pen to write it down. John beat him to it.

"Dean, I don't think he's dead." Dean reopened his eyes, and Sam stared at the tears burning in them. John continued, but in a softer tone. "Like I said, there's salt around the doors and windows. We've just got to work out what happened exactly, and then we can get him back. But I need you calm on this. Okay?"

Dean's nostrils flared as he breathed in heavily, but he nodded. "Okay," he whispered, and there was still so much pain in his voice that Sam almost wished he was visible so he could break one of the unspoken rules between them and hug him.

Did Sam really mean that much to him?

"Okay," John said, breathing out slowly. "He's not a spirit. I'd put my money on magics of some type, a spell or a curse."

"A wish, actually," Sam said wearily. This entire thing was just turning into one big headache.

"Am I right on any of those, Sam?" John asked. He didn't sound upset with Sam, for some reason. They had to know that this was his fault, that he'd gotten himself into this mess, right?

Well, they'd know in a minute. Sam reached for the pen, concentrating hard once more. It lifted as he raised his hand, but his grasp felt...iffy. He wasn't going to be able to hold onto it for very long.

He tried to write fast. It was just one word, and he could tell them what he was. _Invi_

The pen dropped from his grasp, and he fell backwards, shocked at how drained he was. "Sam?" Dean called, worry and panic in his tone. "Dad, what happened? The pen just dropped-"

"I don't know," John said, and he didn't sound very happy with his lack of knowledge. "The word's obvious enough: he's invisible. It's got to be a curse. Sam, we'll get you out of this, all right?" His voice was still patient with Sam, strong but not overly assertive, and Sam wondered where his dad was, and who this person in front of him was. John had never been this way with...

No. That wasn't right. John _had_ been this way with him, once a very long time ago. Before Sam had turned thirteen and started wondering why their lives weren't normal like everyone else's. Before Sam had started questioning his dad's every move. Before John had really turned into his drill sergeant.

This John was the dad he remembered and missed.

Sam nodded before he even realized that John still couldn't see him. It was amazing how a single sentence could instill in him a trust so strong he didn't even question it or question his dad. It was how he felt with Dean: if Dean said he'd fix something, then Sam knew it would happen.

It wasn't a feeling he'd associated with John for a long time now.

He couldn't write another response; he couldn't even write the word "ok" on the sheet to let them know he'd heard them without exhausting his energy. He glanced over at the beer bottle he'd knocked onto the floor, then slowly reached over, concentrated as hard as he could, before pushing it towards Dean. The bottle rolled, only to be stopped by Dean's waiting foot. Dean glanced up at John, and John nodded.

"Okay," John said softly. Message received.

Sam leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

"Sam?"

Sam blearily blinked his eyes open, realizing belatedly that he'd fallen asleep while sitting back against the wall. John was nowhere in the room, and Dean was seated in one of the chairs around the small table. His gaze was cast downward at his hands, and his left leg jiggled, as if he were wired on caffeine. "I, uh..."

Dean chuckled bitterly, tilting his head back and letting his gaze wander over the ceiling. His eyes were shining, and that alone made Sam sit up in worry. "Dean, what's wrong?" he asked. 

"I don't know if you're still in here, or if you went with Dad, but...if you're still here, then..." He let out a deep sigh, eyes still on the ceiling. "I wanted to say that I was...I was sorry."

Sam blinked, then blinked again. His brother was...apologizing? _Dean_ was _apologizing_? "Okay, my life can't get any weirder today," Sam managed. "Sorry for what, Dean?"

Dean hung his head, then glanced to his right and then his left, looking straight at Sam for a moment. Sam wondered if his brother could finally see him or hear him, then watched as Dean's gaze went back to his hands. "When I sided with Dad...you didn't let me finish, man," he said quietly. "I wished you had. I just did it to shock the hell out of you guys, and then I was gonna turn right around and tell him that you were right too. Because you are right. He's right too: I know that the more we know about this thing, the more in the line of fire we are. Innocence is bliss and all that shit."

"I know," Sam said. "But knowledge is power. Power on our side."

"But the more we know, the better off we are. Knowledge is power sort of thing. That's what Dad didn't get, and I did."

He cleared his throat, glancing up again. "I just wanted you to know that. That I'm always gonna be on your side." A sad smile touched his lips, and he added, "You're my little brother, Sam. Nothing tops that."

Sam felt the knots in his chest slowly start to release, and he smiled for the first time since the fight. "Thanks, man," he whispered.

Dean sat for a moment longer, before rubbing the back of his neck as if embarrassed. "So, am I forgiven? Gimme a sign dude, cut me some slack here?"

The chair beside him slid over, hitting his knees before toppling over from the hit. "Okay, ow," Dean said, making a face. "Not the type of sign I was looking for, Sam."

Sam stared at the chair, his chest tightening again. This time, however, it was tight from fear. "Dean, I didn't do it," he said slowly. It hadn't been him; he was still sitting on the floor, albeit now sitting very upright, tense and anxious. It hadn't been him moving the chair.

So what the hell had it been?

The chair Dean was sitting on was suddenly pulled backwards, causing him to stumble forward onto the floor. Just as suddenly as it had gone backwards, it came forward, flying over his legs and hitting him in the back as he tried to stand. "Sam, stop!" Dean yelled, grimacing.

"It's not me!" Sam shouted back, quickly rising to his feet and hurrying over to Dean to help him up. His hands went straight through his brother's arm, and Sam could've screamed in frustration. He turned instead around the room, eyes searching wildly for the culprit until

There. By the wall, a little behind the table, was a transparent figure. It looked like it had been a man once, but the clothes looked like sack-cloth and were tattered to hell, and the skin was withered and eroding.

The skin was obviously solid enough to grab things, though, and it lifted Dean's hunting knife off the table. "DEAN!" Sam shouted, hoping that somehow, his brother would hear him. The figure pulled back its arm and prepared to throw it, releasing it at high velocity.

Sam grabbed the chair that had fallen beside Dean and pulled up, watching the knife sink into the wood as opposed to his brother's shocked face. The door burst open as John rushed in, and Sam found the chair falling from his nerveless fingers. He felt like collapsing, and he nearly did before he forced himself over to John and Dean's side. "Are you okay?" he asked his brother, glancing around for the figure. It was still there, but apparently neither John nor Dean could see it.

Wonderful.

"It's not Sam," Dean said immediately, as John pulled him to standing. "I thought it was at first, a little prank to get back at me, but..."

"Sam wouldn't hurt you," John finished. "I know that."

"Then what the hell is it?" Dean asked, turning his confused look from his father to the windows. Sam could see that they were both perfectly salted, but the door...

Sam froze. The salt around the door had been displaced. In all their wandering and pacing and worrying, the salt had been disturbed. Their worry for Sam had let the damn spirit in.

Wind began to whip around the room as the figure stepped closer to John and Dean. "Back the hell off, _now_," Sam growled, stepping in front of them both. He'd been the cause of this attack, but it wasn't going to continue on for a minute longer. The figure snarled in response, stepping closer to Sam, and he heard sharp intakes of breath behind him. They could see the spirit, then.

"We searched the damn town records ten times over," Dean started, but John cut him off.

"For multiple victims or accidents, something that could've claimed Sam. We never really searched single deaths that were strewn out without a connection," he said quietly, and Sam glanced back for a moment to see his brother and dad warily backing away. There was a shotgun resting against the edge of the beds behind them; all they had to do was get to it.

"I need my journal," John said tersely.

"I need a damn weapon," Dean muttered.

"I need to be visible again," Sam added into the list of wants. The spirit snarled again, and Sam stole a look over his shoulder in time to see Dean slowly reaching for the shotgun. The spirit might not know what was inside it (Sam knew it was rock salt), but it obviously knew that the gun wasn't good news. It lunged forward towards them, and Sam grabbed without even thinking, in an attempt to keep the spirit from his brother.

If he'd thought that lifting the pen or moving the chair had been exhausting, it was nothing like trying to hold onto a spirit. He could feel the energy being drained from him, his muscles collapsing as if overused, and his vision began to fade out.

But the spirit was firmly trapped in his grasp, and it couldn't get to Dean.

"Don't!" he could hear John shout. "Dean, don't shoot!"

"Why the hell not?"

"You could hit Sam!"

The spirit suddenly twisted, then raked its fingers across Sam's face. He gave a yell as pain erupted across his face, then doubled over as it hit him again across his torso. Then he felt the brief sensation of flying, only to be stopped as the spirit grabbed him by the ankles and caused him to hit the floor instead.

He heard two rounds from the shotgun being fired, and the high-pitched cry of the spirit as it was hit. A voice was heard underneath it all, a deep voice that was chanting, and Sam realized it was his dad reciting a Latin phrase. He couldn't place it; he'd never heard this one before.

Whatever it was, it did the trick. The spirit shrieked, causing Sam to grimace at the noise, before it cut off abruptly as the spirit presumably vanished. He heard hurried footsteps a moment later, the sound of a gun being dropped to the floor, and closed his eyes in relief. The spirit was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

"He's over here somewhere," Dean said, voice closer and louder. "I watched the thing's arms throw something. Sam? Sammy, where are you?"

"I'm right here," Sam managed to get out, and he winced. Talking only made his cheeks move, and right now, his left cheek felt like it was on fire. So did his chest and ankle. He tried to uncurl himself from the position he'd been dropped in, but pain flared up suddenly from the wound on his midsection. Nausea swelled in his gut and he swallowed hard, breathing even harder to try and stave off the unwanted bout of sickness.

"You see anything move?" Dean asked, his tone tense and anxious.

A moment's pause, before John answered tightly, "No. _Dammit_. Sammy?"

Sam glanced around for anything he could touch, anything he could move, but there wasn't anything within reach, and he simply couldn't move. Moving was not on his list of things that was going to happen.

"He'd know what to do," Dean said suddenly. "If it were me or you, he'd know what to do, something creative. He'd question everything until he figured out another way." He gave a laugh that sounded more like a sob, before he said quietly, "We need Sam."

Sam blinked as his entire body flickered, becoming translucent for a moment, before he returned to his usual solid state. "Sam?" he heard John say, and then they were crouched beside him, as if they were actually looking at him. Could they see him?

"Dad?" he gasped, hoping that they could hear him finally. Their expressions didn't change, though, and the hope began to fall. Just a fluke, then.

"What did you do?" John asked Dean, hope in his own tone. "Did you move, did you..."

"I-I don't know," Dean stammered. Dean _never_ stammered. "But I know I saw him for a second." Dean frowned as he thought back. "I said he'd know what to do, and that we needed him."

Sam watched as his body flickered once more, longer this time, long enough for John and Dean to reach out for him. Then the flicker stopped, Sam disappeared, and they grabbed nothing but air. John made a strangled sound. "_Dammit_ the _hell_. He was _right there_, Dean. I almost had him. I can't even hold my own damn son like I want to."

Sam flickered again, and by this point in time, he'd figured out why. The other wish he'd made before he'd asked to become visible was being answered. _I wish...I wish I knew that they actually cared. No one in my family seems to enjoy talking except me. Talking about the stuff that really matters. If they could just say it, just once, that they cared, that they loved me..._

One wish to condemn him to invisibility, the other to save him from it. It made perfect sense, in that horrible sort of way.

Dean was staring directly at Sam, as if he could still see him, his eyes widening as he sat in thought. He leaned forward a moment later, hand ghosting in the air over Sam, and said softly, "Sammy, I need you. I need you back, man. I _want_ you back, with me, with _us_."

Sam faded out slower this time, but the flicker didn't fade out as quickly either. He wasn't paying any attention to it anymore; his eyes were locked on Dean, not really quite believing what he was hearing. Dean, who never _ever_ spilled his emotional guts, was doing so for Sam.

He really meant that much to Dean. It wasn't a question in his head anymore; he knew it was true.

John didn't give Sam a chance to disappear again. "I'm with Dean: I want you back with me. I just got my son back; I'm not going to lose him again. I won't lose _you_ again, Sam." He reached out as Dean had, and placed his hand gently where Sam's shoulder would've been. It felt like a brush over his arm instead of the firm grip he knew it should've been, but Sam still felt it.

The flicker had practically stopped, and Sam's eyes were still locked on Dean, on John, on his _family_. His family who did care, enough to let down their emotional shields and guards and tell him they wanted him and needed him.

Sam could feel the heat from his brother's hand over his torn up cheek, and Dean gave him a watery smile. "I love you, Sammy," he whispered, and as he flickered once more, Sam knew he'd heard his father echo it.

Then he wasn't translucent anymore, but they were still looking at him, still hesitantly touching him as if he was going to disappear again as well. When a moment passed and Sam realized he was visible completely, Dean dove forward, wrapping his arms under and around Sam's neck and shoulder and held on. "Sorry for the girl moment you had to live through," Sam choked out with a small laugh, tears he hadn't realized he'd been crying running freely down his face.

"So long as it doesn't become habit, I'll live," Dean murmured, and Sam could hear the smile in his voice.

The hand gripping his shoulder moved down to clutch at his hand, and Sam glanced around his brother to see his dad. John was smiling with glistening eyes, and Sam squeezed his hand. "Thank hell," John breathed out on a sigh, the relief evident in his voice and body.

"The spirit...?" Sam asked, wincing as Dean pulled away. The pain in his chest was only getting worse; he needed pain killers stat. He'd enjoy being able to grab them and hold them in his own hands again without feeling like he was going to pass out.

"It's gone. At least, from the room. I found a banishment spell awhile back, and it's not permanent, but it'll give us enough time to go find the bastard and torch him," John said, his voice clear and strong again. His hand was still wrapped around Sam's, though, and he didn't give any signs of letting go. "After we get you patched up," he added. "And I'd really like to know what the hell got you."

"Nothing got him."

All three heads whipped around to the center of the room, where a familiar blonde was standing. Sam groaned as he turned too quickly, and immediately felt Dean's tense hand reach out to steady him. "Amelia?" Sam called, pain still in his tone. _Damn_ but that hit had hurt. Spirits shouldn't be able to pack such a punch.

"You know her?" Dean asked, moving his gaze quickly from Sam to Amelia, who was smiling now.

"Yeah," Sam said, putting his palm down on the floor to push himself up. The pain was intense as his shirt shifted across his chest and his muscles quivered beneath his skin. Worse yet, the nausea returned, threatening to pull him down to the ground once more.

But steady hands had him, gently and firmly guiding him to a sitting position, then making sure he stayed there. "I'm fairly certain she's the one who's responsible for my Casper trial period," Sam finished, gazing at Amelia in confusion. "Why?"

Amelia blinked her lilac eyes and looked just as confused as he was. "Why? Sam, I granted your wishes. That's all I did. I don't grant everyone's wishes, and you didn't even come into my garden to ask at my fountain, but I granted yours anyways."

"Wishes?" Dean sounded bewildered, but there was a hint of anger and suspicion in his tone, and Sam knew this wasn't going to end well. Dean was going to raise hell when he found out what Sam had inadvertently wished for.

He didn't even want to think about how his dad was going to react. Maybe if he could draw this out a little...

Amelia smiled and got right to the heart of it all. "He wished to just disappear." John and Dean turned their heads towards him, and Sam hung his head before their angry eyes could lock onto his gaze. He felt his cheeks burning, felt shame and guilt weighing on his shoulders as if they were honest to goodness entities.

"I'm getting that this wish didn't go exactly how you'd planned for it to go, and I _do_ like you, Sam. Did you want to make another wish?" she asked gently, but it was John who answered her after a moment had passed.

"No. There won't be any more wishes made today." His voice was soft, dangerously so Sam thought, and Sam closed his eyes.

This was _not_ going to end well. At all.

Amelia nodded her understanding and simply vanished. Sam wished he could do the same thing. He wanted to wish to be invisible again, to avoid the berating and yelling he knew he deserved for what he'd wished. Or have Amelia take him back to the garden. Anywhere but in the same room with a reasonably furious Dean and John Winchester.

Oh yeah. Loads of fun.


	6. Chapter 6 End

It was John who broke the silence first. "We need to take care of his injuries before they get infected," he said quietly, his voice void of any real emotion, and Sam sure as hell wasn't going to look at him to see what his face held. He had a fairly good idea.

Sam pressed his hands to the floor to lift himself up, and was told immediately by his chest how bad an idea that was. He bit his bottom lip and forced himself up anyways, his arms shaking from pain and exertion before he'd even gotten his feet flat on the floor to stand.

Strong hands grabbed his arm and carefully circled around his chest before pulling him up fast enough to make him gasp and try to steady his vision. "Quit trying to be a macho pain in the ass," Dean muttered. "You took a wallop."

"No kidding," Sam replied softly. He continued to keep his gaze down on his feet as they moved him to the bed. He could see John's hand just above his waist, and Dean's hands he could feel on his shoulders. He was surprised they were still helping him out after the recent revelation, that he'd caused all this grief and stress on their part. Typical Winchester fashion dictated that they'd both help him up, make sure he was standing on his own two feet, then hit him with angry shouts.

But there were only two gentle grips helping him onto the bed, where he sat at the edge and took a deep breath to settle his stomach. Two pills appeared along with a glass of water a moment later, and he nodded his thanks before swallowing them down. It was nice to be able to touch things again. It was nice to be able to sit on the bed again, instead of the floor. He reached his hand out and felt the comforter beneath his fingers, a little rough on this side, but still touchable.

"Why'd you drop the pen earlier?" Dean asked, and the question almost made Sam turn his gaze to where he knew John and Dean were standing. He got as far as lifting his head, before he turned back away to watch his fingers skim over the comforter.

"It was taking pretty much all of my energy to hold it," Sam told them. "To hold anything. Everything I touched and held drained me. It was...it was creepy. If you hadn't opened the door yesterday to look outside, I probably wouldn't have gotten in."

"You grabbed the chair earlier, then," Dean continued. Sam nodded, his fingers still moving. Back and forth, back and forth, feeling the friction that felt wonderful beneath his skin. It gave him something to focus on besides his furious family which, speaking of, where _was_ the fury he'd been expecting?

"Did you grab the spirit too?"

"Yes," Sam said simply in response to his brother's question.

"Why?"

Sam's fingers stopped moving, and in his shock he turned wide eyes to Dean. His brother was standing with his arms crossed and honest to goodness confusion on his face, and John was right behind him. Neither of them looked furious, or even mad in the slightest, and that just fueled Sam's shock even further. "_Why_? Because it was coming after you two! I wasn't sure I could even touch it, but I'd seen it before you two had, so I figured I might've had a chance, and I did, so I took it. And because I happen to love the both of you, but if that's not a good enough reason for _why_, then-"

"Sammy, I know why," Dean said quietly, uncrossing his arms with a sigh and stepping over to the bed. He sat down beside Sam before turning to lock gazes with him. "I knew why the minute you grabbed the damn thing, even if I couldn't see you to know it was you. No one else would've jumped in to grab it for us. And I knew you doing that meant that you loved me, loved us both."

Sam hesitantly tore his gaze from Dean to glance at his dad, who seemed to know exactly where Dean was going with this. And that was all well and good for him, but Sam didn't know, which made him turn back to his brother. "I don't-"

"I'm trying to tell you that I don't need to hear the words to know that you care about me, that you love me," Dean said, and Sam's heart twisted even as he tried to hide the wince on his face. He must not have done a very good job at it, because Dean immediately raised his hand. "Let me finish this time, man?" he asked softly.

Sam could only nod, and Dean finished, "I'm not you, though, Sam. That's what I didn't get. Maybe I don't need those words...but you do. We're different, I know, but it's been those differences that have kept us alive over the years. I've got a fast trigger finger, and you love your books enough to tell me what to fire at. I know if there's something wrong, you'll think it through and work it out."

The twisting in his chest had long gone, and Sam's wince had turned into a smile that was getting wider by the minute. Dean fidgeted, before turning to John. "I've done my chick-flick moment; your turn."

John snorted even as Sam chuckled, but the sound of mirth faded as John stepped forward. "Above everything else, you're my son, Sam. I may not be the father you imagined having, and I know I don't say it often enough, but I love you. Even when I'm pissed as hell at you and I want to take a swing at you, I'd immediately turn around and take a swing at the thing sneaking up to take you out. And Dean's right: our differences have been our saving grace. Your questions used to bug the hell out of me."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Kinda guessed," he said dryly, and managed a smirk even as he felt his eyes sting again. He was a walking chick-flick moment; Dean was right.

"They'd make me sit and think it through, though, and I'd find something most times that I hadn't seen before, another way to do things, a way that would usually wind up saving my life, because of _you_," John said quietly, and the stinging sensation only intensified. "It irritates the hell out of me sometimes, but it's also one of the reasons I love you so much."

He stepped forward and crouched in front of Sam, hand reaching out to rest on Sam's shoulder. "I may be smart, smarter than most," he said, his voice even quieter than before, "but I've done some stupid things. And the stupidest one was letting you walk out on me, twice, thinking I didn't give a damn about you."

Sam inhaled shakily, his lips trembling as he tried to keep them still and keep the tears from rolling. He lost the battle and felt the tears slide down his face, and he ducked his head as he choked back a sob. "I really am a girl, aren't I?" he managed to get out, trying to smile but not quite getting it to work.

The hand on his shoulder tightened, and another hand, Dean's hand, slid over his other shoulder to hold him. "Yeah, but you're _our_ girl," Dean said, and Sam snorted and laughed even while he flipped his brother the bird.

Dean snickered and John chuckled, and as Sam watched them, the tears dried and the pain in his chest finally disappeared completely. This was good. This was better than good. They didn't get to laugh often enough.

And neither of them had let go of Sam yet either, and that was perfectly okay as far as Sam was concerned.

"Let's patch up Samantha already," Dean said, rising quickly before Sam's outstretched arm could hit him. "Then let's figure out what the hell that thing was or _who_ it was, salt and burn the bastard, then get the hell out of this town."

"Agreed," John said, turning back to look at Sam. For the first time in too long, they exchanged a smile that didn't feel awkward or forced. It felt good to have his brother _and_ his dad back.

For once, they'd had good luck, not the unfortunate type that seemed to cover their family like a dark blanket. That was something that had been another first in too long. It felt good.

"Sounds like a plan," Sam added, before glancing over at his brother. "There's something else I want to do before we leave, though."

The spirit wound up being easy to find, and easier still to salt and burn. It had tried to attack them again, but the three had worked together as a solid team, and it shouldn't have surprised Sam at how easy everything had gone down because of it. The three of them were a stronger force when they were together. From his brother's statement at how anticlimactic it had been, and his dad's almost comedic confusion as he'd nodded in agreement, Sam knew they'd figured it out, too.

The next day, on their way out of town, Dean pulled over to park against the same curb Sam had sat on only a few days before. John's truck pulled up right behind them, but only Sam stepped out to enter the garden.

Amelia had been right; it was much nicer inside. Butterflies flew from flower to flower, in easy rhythm with the bumblebees that were doing the same. The garden was circular, with the stone path weaving around and out to various flowers.

In the center of the garden was the fountain. It looked like a natural spring, with only a small golden bowl around the base. Several stones were placed in the bowl around the water stream as if to keep it going straight up, but Sam knew the water would continue up even without the help of the stones.

The fountain rose gracefully, before descending to the stones below. The stones almost seemed to change color as the water fell, and Sam probably wasn't just seeing things. It was like Ayers Rock, the blessed monument of Australia: the stones changed colors, it was in the center of the garden, and it was guarded by something that couldn't be explained.

The spirits guarding Ayers Rock probably weren't as benevolent to its guests as Amelia was to hers.

"I'm going to guess that you're a faerie, but I could be wrong," Sam said softly, lowering himself to kneel with one knee before the fountain. "It's the only thing that I could think of that would grant wishes with only goodness in the intentions. Plus, fae generally enjoy nature and..." Sam glanced around at the garden, smiling. "Your nature is beautiful. The entire town is beautiful and _safe_. The spirit we stumbled upon was a new spirit. If we'd left it alone, I've got the feeling that you'd have taken care of it. I'm betting you've taken care of this town for years."

He glanced down at the stones beneath his knees. "You took care of me, too," he continued quietly. "And you gave me back my family, and that...I can't repay that.

"But I wanted to leave you this. I couldn't think of another way to say thank you, so..." He pulled his gift from his pocket, placing it gently in front of the fountain, then rose to full height.

"Thank you," he whispered, before he turned to walk away. A soft sound behind him made him turn back, and he blinked. The seeds of lilac he'd placed were gone, and a small lilac was growing in front of the fountain.

He smiled and stepped out of the garden.

Dean and John were both leaning against the Impala when he came back out. "Can you still see me?" Sam asked, half kidding.

"Unfortunately," Dean said while rolling his eyes, and John slowly chuckled as Sam reached forward to smack his brother. When he glanced again at Dean, he could see a grin on his brother's face and a gaze that was full of happiness as it locked on Sam. Sam grinned too, turning to look at John. John simply sighed, but there was a soft smile on his lips as well.

"Let's get out of here," John said, pushing himself away from the Impala. "Dean, you ever gonna let your brother drive?"

"Driver picks the music," Dean supplied, shrugging as Sam slid into the passenger seat. "Shotgun shuts his cakehole...unless he needs to talk." Sam leaned over to see his brother through the driver's window, and was almost surprised at the honesty and seriousness with which his brother said the words.

Then Sam began to smile. "Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"...You're such a girl."

John's laughter covered _most _of Dean's growl as he slid into the car to reach for his brother.


End file.
